


Knave of Hearts

by semele



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semele/pseuds/semele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wells' muscles react before his mind can really register movement, and he shifts his body, not too much, just by a few inches. Charlotte's knife slides down his ribs, leaving a painful, shallow cut, then flies away in a graceful arch; Wells must've knocked it out of her hand, right before she screamed and ran away, but he has no memory of doing it, no memory whatsoever.</p><p>(A Wells lives AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It all lasts no longer than a blink of an eye.

Wells' muscles react before his mind can really register movement, and he shifts his body, not too much, just by a few inches. Charlotte's knife slides down his ribs, leaving a painful, shallow cut, then flies away in a graceful arch; Wells must've knocked it out of her hand, right before she screamed and ran away, but he has no memory of doing it, no memory whatsoever.

The pain is blinding until it isn't, and Wells becomes hyperaware of the world around him, knows exactly how far camp is it, how many rocks and blades of grass away. It's dramatic, but also unebelievably silly; not really a wound, but a scratch with pretense, how telling. Wells is torn between wanting to make a big deal out of this and craving to be a silent hero, but nothing works, really, and for a second he has a ridiculous thought that Charlotte should've cut deeper.

You see, what you need to know about Wells Jaha is that what he thinks and what he wants are sometimes two completely different things. This often happens to people who think too much.

***

As he stumbles back into camp with a very impressive bloodstain on his jacket, a certain amount of reality kicks in. His side hurts ( ~~like a papercut~~ ) like hell, but the wound isn't serious, and if he doesn't do anything stupid, like roll in mud and get it infected, he should be okay. He doesn't even need to ask for help to get to the dropship – he climbs all by himself, and his steps must be a lot more stable than he thinks, because it barely turns heads when he loudly stomps on metal plates. 

That, or they really hate him.

Clarke is by Jasper's bed, just where Wells expected to find her, and he gratefully collapses next to her, how appropriately dramatic. It's almost comical how quickly her eyes go wide when she sees his pale face and red, sticky fingers. 

She appears to be in five places at once, or maybe blood loss is taking its toll, and Wells finally loses his ridiculous awareness, and starts to feel properly woozy. Either way, he does his best to keep his answers short and precise. He's so exhilarated that they're speaking again that he lets Clarke ask all the whos and whys and whens, and tries not to hiss too much when she gently peels off his jacket. Once upon a time, he remembers, they would spend lazy evenings watching old medical shows and marvelling at the ridiculous excess of cutting clothes off of accident victims. For them, it would be crazy to waste a good jacket.

“We need to catch Charlotte,” says Clarke tensely. Her fingers are steady as they move around the wound, and Wells tries to follow their movement with his eyes, but they seem so quick it only serves to make him more dizzy.

“I think she ran into the woods,” he says, trying to blink away the funny feeling in his head.

“You think?”

“You know, I was kind of busy not dying,” he can't resist saying. The line really was too good to pass, and here on the ground, there is no one but Clarke who'd let him get away with it. “But I don't think she'd run back into the camp.”

“I don't know, Wells. She was terrified. She wouldn't go to the woods on her own.”

Suddenly this whole situation feels unbelievably absurd; it's so bizarre that Clarke is yet again looking at him like he's a person, but what's even more weird is the mental image of Charlotte as a child too frightened to face a forest when he still remembers her knife sliding off his ribs in a painful swoop. If he hadn't moved, if he hadn't had an inexplicable instinct to move, she would've murdered him on the spot.

But then, fair is fair: if he were Charlotte, he'd probably try to murder him as well.

“Fine, then check the camp just in case,” he manages, as if Clarke ever was the kind of person to wait for his assent. “It's almost dark, we can't seach for her outside the fence anyway. Search party will have to wait for morning. You're right, we need to find her. If she's in the woods, she won't survive there.”

Clarke gives him a strange look, one he can't even begin to read – because, you see, Clarke now has looks that he can't read.

“You know,” she starts slowly,” I'd be more worried about her coming back to finish you off.”

***

The commotion in camp seems to reach Wells from far away as crashes from his adrenaline high. The shock of the night slowly sets in and envelops him in a woozy, half-awake frenzy (somewhere between life and. death, he likes to think). The cut on his ribs is shallow, but it's also ridiculously painful, and only now he can imagine why Jasper screamed so much when they brought him here. Maybe not exactly understand, but imagine. Wells is good at imagining.

Fear kicks in slowly, and Wells finally lets himself think about everything that could've happened, think about it for real instead of playing make-believe; think about blood, and bone, and skin, and about a knife sinking into his neck or between his ribs.

For the first time in his life, death becomes a real thing.

He knew he could die on the ground, of course. They all knew that, the way they knew what water plants look like, or how to tell a deer from a moose. But there is knowing, and then there is _knowing_ , a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and a cold shiver rolling down his back. He could've died, and not for Clarke, like he'd planned, but for something utterly ridiculous.

(For dad, says a quiet voice at the back of his head, but it's completely illogical, so Wells ignores it.)

He knows they won't find Charlotte in camp, knew that from the start, but now he starts wondering whether they can even find her in the woods. There was something in her face that makes him think she won't want to be found, and if so, this place is so freaking big they don't stand a chance. 

It takes no time at all to dissect why she'd do what she did; Charlotte is hardly the first person to hate him just enough. She's merely the first to get her hands on a weapon at the right moment. This had to happen sooner or later, and he has to count himself lucky that it happened like this, inept hands and dumb luck.

You see, for Wells, this never was about Charlotte.

***

The morning is a sorry affair, lonely and so tedious that Wells sincerily regrets his earlier fleeting wishes for a better knife wound. He doesn't want a better knife wound. He doesn't want any wound at all. He wants to be up and about, and a part of a search party.

Which wouldn't even be setting out of he hadn't gotten stabbed, but since Wells isn't actually going ot complain to anyone, he doesn't get too fussy about the contradiction.

Clarke drops in quite early to check up on him and Jasper, then leaves to play the white knight, and there is nothing left to do but wait. Wells' only choices are splitting hairs or boring himself into a nap, so he does both in equal measure, careful to only consider easy topics, petty, small and unpainful. There is nothing to fight for at the moment, so he might as well conserve his strength and follow doctor's orders.

Hours pass before footsteps sound against the metal plates of the dropship.

“We need to talk,” says Bellamy firmly, and Wells feels a sudden urge to prop himself up on his elbows. It actually doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. Of course it doesn't. He should've gotten up this morning after all.

“What do you want?” he barks. He aims for hostile, but even he has to admit that what comes out of his mouth is more on the tired side.

“We didn't find the girl.”

“Look, if you just came here to tell me what I already know...”

“We didn't find the girl,” repeats Bellamy, “but I didn't tell our people why we were looking for her. Everyone thinks you were both attacked by Grounders.”

“You lied to them?” asks Wells with indignation that surprises even him, then bites back a laugh at his own hipocrysy. Always the truth warrior, are you, Jaha?

Bellamy gives him a sharp look, and only now Wells notices just how much he fidgets. It's as if Bellamy Blake was made of knots, of sharp edges and tight strings. 

As if he was terrified.

“I didn't have to,” he says curtly. “People can think for themselves. I didn't correct them. I need you to not correct them either.”

“And why...” starts Wells, but then the answer dawns on him, so obvious he really should've thought of it sooner. “You want them to be afraid. So that they listen to you.”

“So that they do what needs to be done. They started building a wall around the camp. They're working like crazy because they are afraid. This fear will keep us all alive.”

It's Wells' first instinct to say no, to run outside and tell the truth. Doesn't he know better now? You don't lie to your own people, no matter what happens; you just don't. He should've learned from his dad's lies, and from his own lies to Clarke, a lie will always be discovered, it's only a matter of time. 

Except when he pulls himself up a bit more, he can see people working like the Devil's chasing them, making nose he was too focused on himself to notice, tying knots and adjusting slender tree branches. Bellamy's wall is rising up to greet danger, a danger that's real no matter whose hand actually held the knife that cut Wells' side. What they're discussing might be a lie about Charlotte, but it's not a lie about the Grounders.

This isn't about Charlotte.

“I'll keep your secret,” he says after a moment. “But if I think you're abusing your power...”

“Right, Chancellor,” replies Bellamy with a nasty smile. “You'd know all about that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning, to Bellamy's sincere surprise, Jaha gets his ass out of infirmary, and joins everyone in building the wall. Behind him, Clarke is practically oozing firebolts, a sight to behold; she is mad, which means she just did something wrong.

There is an old song stuck in Bellamy's head, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't shake it off.

He doesn't remember the lyrics very well, and it annoys him to no end. I mean, he would probably stop obsessing about it if he could just sing the whole thing out to himself from beginning to end, but no, of course not, nothing can be so easy. 

If he were here on his own, he'd at least pretend to himself that this is something their mother used to hum, but as it is, he has an irrational feeling that Octavia would smell the rat the second she looked at him. So he's stuck muttering a cheesy line from a century-old song when he's supposed to be worrying about an attempted murder in his camp. _Let in the light, turn me to dust. Let in the light, turn me to dust. Let in..._

Fuck.

***

Bellamy can feel Clarke's judgemental stare the second he emerges from the dropship, and rolls his eyes preemptively to get in character, don't know don't care, at least they're building the damned wall.

“What did Wells say?” asks Clarke as he approaches. “Did he jump to the chance to lie to everyone and keep them scared?” 

Bellamy notices with some amusement that she's keeping her voice down, actually taking care to protect a secret she thinks they shouldn't be having.

“He said he'd keep his mouth shut,” he says casually. Clarke shakes her head.

“That's not possible,” she shoots back, ready for a fight, and Bellamy feels tired at the very sight of the energy she's bursting with.

“Ask him yourself,” he replies, and doesn't even stop to look at her. It's easier to walk nonchalantly than to face Clarke Griffin's twisted take on ethics after a long day. Long night. Long week. Whatever. 

See, what you need to know about Bellamy Blake is that he's a reasonably decent person. He knows the difference between right and wrong the way he knows the difference between good and bad taste, implicitly and infallably, without even a shade of doubt.

So, what was that song again?

***

The next morning, to Bellamy's sincere surprise, Jaha gets his ass out of infirmary, and joins everyone in building the wall. Behind him, Clarke is practically oozing firebolts, a sight to behold; she is mad, which means she just did something wrong.

“Ready to lend a hand, Princess?” he asks mockingly, knowing full well what he'll hear in response. For form's sake he waits for her to glare before he turns his head and tosses a few pieces of makeshift rope in Wells' general direction.

“Make sure they stay in place,” he says, pointing at the planks in a shaky bit of the wall, then picks up one of the shorter logs from the pile, and, humming, goes to what he hopes will be a gate by the end of the day.

It's the kind of work Bellamy only read about, as exhilarating as it is backbreaking, with sun shining over his head and wind chilling him to the bone. None of them knows how to dress for weather; oxygen deprivation, they can manage, but they're yet to learn how best to dry their clothes after a rain. The air feels weird on his sweaty skin, and Bellamy wonders for a second how come none of his people is getting sick here. Nevermind radiation – shouldn't they all be coming down with a monster flu?

You see, it's easier like this, easier to think about a song, the wind, and the flu. Now that no one is looking at him, Bellamy only needs to close his eyes to revoke the image that's been with him for hours now, his hand on a knife and a child's feeble fingers, _Slay your demons, kid_ , what possessed him to say something like that?

Watch him take the coward's way out.

He moves towards Wells as he works, in vain hope that seeing him wince every time he twists his torso will somehow put things in perspective, but it changes nothing, nothing at all. Charlotte is out there, Bellamy thinks, and she's his responsibility, but it's better for the Hundred if Grounders find her first, so here he is, pragmatically chopping wood. He can't even face supervising the constructions right now, and is content to let Murphy do his job for him.

Bellamy has a nagging feeling that he remembers Murphy from the Ark, though to be fair, he has this feeling about most of the camp, and he quickly learned not to trust it. He's pitifully bad at remembering faces, so he always assumes he knows everyone just in case he really does; a tendency absolutely useless in a janitor, but surprisingly handy in a self-proclaimed new sheriff in town.

But whether Bellamy really knew him before or not, it doesn't take a genius to notice that Murphy has a nasty edge, a guardsman's mind and hands, skinned thoughts and skinned knuckles. Murphy on a job guarantees a few black eyes and a job well done, which is exactly what Bellamy needs now.

“Pass me the knife, Chancellor,” he says to Wells right before they hear screams from the other side of the camp, and rush towards them hand in hand without even looking at each other.

***

The shaky shape on the ground can only be Clarke; between her jacket, and the shocking mop of blond hair, there can't really be any doubt. And yet Bellamy doesn't recognize her at all, not until Wells runs to her and practically covers her with his own body. It's so unlike Clarke to lie somewhere face down Bellamy can't quite comprehend the situation at first.

Only when he realizes she's shaking with fury, not fear or pain, pieces start falling neatly into place.

Murphy is towering over Clarke and Wells with a nasty-looking branch in his hand, and the angry red welt on the side of Clarke's face speaks for itself even without the shouts that grow between them and spread like wildfire.

“You don't make the rules here, Murphy!” yells Clarke, her fingers clasping Wells' wrist like a lifeline. “What gives you...”

“Everyone has to work!” interrupts Murphy furiously. “Everyone! You think you're still on the Ark, and we'll do your dirty work for you? Forget it! This is Earth, and you have to get out of your ass and build the wall, or we'll leave you outside!”

The cold chill that travels down Bellamy's back has nothing to do with the weather. It's not like he didn't know, on some level, that Murphy was trouble, but he didn't expect this, a bloodthirsty murmur rolling through the crowd and echoing his own words from a few days back, whatever the hell we want.

We want to see the Princess float.

It's only when Wells starts getting up that Bellamy picks up another sound as well, angrier and nastier. Personal.

Clarke wasn't the first person Murphy hit today.

Wells comes up to him slowly, his slashed jacket in plain view, and to Bellamy's shock no one moves to stop him as he takes Murphy's branch, breaks it on his knee, and lets it fall to the ground with a dull thud.

Bellamy forgets about Charlotte, forgets guilt, and responsibility, and a growing sense of unease. He knows he has eyes on him now, that people are aware of him even as they rush forward to grab Murphy, who now covers his head with his hands to protect it from fists and stones, and screams for help.

“Stop it!” yells Bellamy with a steady voice that surprises even him with its sureness, with authority and strength. He doesn't have to look to know that he has everyone's attention. “This is what the Grounders want! They want us to fight each other! They want us to be weak! But we are not weak!”

When he stops for a breath, he catches Wells' eye, and, for the first time since they got to the ground, Chancellor is nodding to him in assent.

“If Murphy abused his power, we'll deal with it,” continues Bellamy calmly. He can hear people cheering on him, and lets his voice flow with theirs like they were singing a song, a shaky crescendo going through the whole camp. It's easy to feel exactly what they want him to say. “We'll hear you out. Everyone will get a chance to speak. But first, we have to finish the wall!”

When Wells and Clarke grab Murphy's shoulders, and haul him towards the dropship without a single sound of protest from the crowd, Bellamy feels high like a kite.

***

They do finish the gate before nightfall.

By the time Bellamy ties the last knot for the day, he's so tired he can barely stand, but it's good kind of tired, free of ghosts and thoughts and fears. For the first time since he got to the ground his tent actually feels like home, and he knows he's building something, something vital, and lasting, and precious. He makes a mental note to deal with Murphy in the morning, then falls onto bed with a satisfactory groan, and allows himself to think that maybe, just maybe, he and Octavia could have a life here.

Then a pod falls down from the sky, and Bellamy finds himself on the floor, scrambling for shoes in panic before he goes out of his tent and lies to his people's faces without a second thought, then sets out to destroy their only chance of rescue.

***

If you know Bellamy at all, you can easily imagine that if he got a chance to sleep a bit that night, he wouldn't, after all, dream about power, not about leadership, nor strategy, nor survival. 

He'd dream about Charlotte as he remembers her, strong, and frightened, and in need of his help. She'd stand right in front of him, the bloody knife he'd put in her her hand predictably larger than life. As Bellamy looks at her undecided, Charlotte would open her mouth, and sing that goddamned song, sing it loudly and clearly so that every word could sink deeply into Bellamy's mind until he closes his eyes and tries not to listen. _Let in the light,_ she would sing, _turn me to dust_.

_If it don't end in bloodshed, dear, it's probably not love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The goddamned song Bellamy can't stop obsessing about can be found [here](http://artists.letssingit.com/tom-mcrae-lyrics-my-vampire-heart-xs62vfn#axzz2OuHpvl69). If you don't know the lyrics already, I'd suggest looking them up after you read the chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Wells falls asleep, he wonders if this is what his dad must feel like after a good day's work: tired and happy, but with more than a hint of fear. In the morning, he thinks fleetingly, he must ask Clarke if she felt the same.

Locking Murphy up is one of the most satisfying things Wells did since he got to the ground.

Clarke is sporting an impressive shiner, but other than that, she seems unharmed. It doesn't matter – Wells still can't stop glancing at her every ten seconds, until he annoys her into sitting down and letting him check her for concussion.

Which, to be fair, he's pretty bad at, but hey, he isn't the one who's been groomed to be the Ark's chief physician since the age of five.

“Ask me who Chancellor is,” suggests Clarke in a bored tone of voice as he's clumsily trying to check her eyes' reaction to light.

“Not funny.”

“A little bit funny.”

And, just like that, they're kids again, cracking smiles and sharing looks, happy, and strong, and together.

The illusion of safety lasts for about thirty eight seconds.

“What will we do with him?” asks Clarke, inclining her head in the general direction of Murphy.

“Honestly? No clue,” replies Wells as he sits next to her on a bench. “We can't exactly charge him with being an asshole.”

“We could charge him with assault.”

“And what, float him?”

Clarke bites her lip.

“We need new laws,” she says after a minute. “Laws that _work_ here on the ground.”

“Yes? And who would make the laws? You? Me? Bellamy? We aren't exactly an independent state here, Clarke.”

“Well, neither is the Ark!”

He knows she has a point, but logic doesn't make things any easier. It is true that the Ark isn't a state or a nation, not exactly; it's just a bunch of people who spent a century willing themselves to survive however they could. They made laws when they needed them, and treated hesitation as a mortal sin. Tradition was dangerous. Sentimentality was deadly. Wells knows all this, and he knows that they should do whatever they need in order to survive.

What he doesn't know is how the Council will react when they eventually come down here, and realize that a motley crowd of juvenile delinquents whom they've sent to the ground to maybe ( ~~preferably~~ ) die outgrew following orders.

***

It's a slow evening, and for the first time since they landed on the ground, Wells actually feels like people in camp aren't looking to immediately murder him. Whether it's because they saw him take a stand alongside Bellamy, or because he worked so hard on the wall, just like everybody else, he neither knows or cares. 

(Okay, he does care. But he has no way of knowing, so he makes an effort to be cool about it.)

Unsurprisingly, no one wanted to room with him, so his tent is tiny compared to others', but also he has a place just for himself – a piece of land he can call his own, honestly and beyond doubt. He has a makeshift bed no one slept in before, and while his clothes are hand-me-down, the sticks that hold his walls in place are brand new, and their sheer novelty still makes him stop from time to time. It's the first time in his life anyone had anything truly new.

As Wells falls asleep, he wonders if this is what his dad must feel like after a good day's work: tired and happy, but with more than a hint of fear. In the morning, he thinks fleetingly, he must ask Clarke if she felt the same.

***

When Clarke violently shakes him awake later that night, Wells is significantly less philosophical.

(He isn't alert enough to notice her messy hair, or fresh mud on her shoes that proves beyond doubt that she just returned from the woods, but don't worry. He will realize soon enough.)

“You saw what?” he mumbles, half-lucid, as he tries to grasp the meaning of her hastily spoken words. If there ever was a moment when Wells Jaha envied his dad's uncanny ability to look dignified when pulled out of bed at three in the morning, it is now.

“A pod from the Ark just landed in the woods. The whole camp is buzzing about it. Seriously, does _nothing_ wake you?”

“A pod?” manages Wells with a groggy stutter. “Supplies?”

“Whatever it is, Bellamy just sneaked out on his own to get it.”

And, just like that, Wells is wide awake. He rushes after Clarke like the devil's chasing him, his jacket askew and one shoelace undone, because he can't think of any other way to stop her.

Like any intelligent person, Wells is terrified of the woods and what they could find there, of strange plants and treacherous paths, of wild animals and hostile people. But most of all, he's terrified of his own ignorance – what he doesn't know about weather, or tracking, or making fires, or even something as simple as walking on rocks without twisting his ankle could fill a good, thick book, and every freaking page could kill him on the spot.

“Wait,” he gets out once he catches up with Clarke at the gate.

(Her blood, he knows, is somewhere on the ground here.)

“For what? Wells, there is something out there that Bellamy wants, and if we don't...”

“We're not going out there alone.”

Just then, Finn shows up beside them with a freshly lit torch, and Wells silently blesses his dramatic timing. Seven more people follow with more fire and makeshift weapons, and okay, maybe they are inviting a Grounder attack by going into the woods with blazing flames, but at least they won't break their necks on the first rock they step on.

They leave at once, but Clarke is still annoyed that they're going too slowly, seeing too little, and not covering nearly enough ground. Finn is talking, but it sounds to Wells like he's coming from far away even though they can't be walking more than a few feet apart, Clarke between them like a wedge. Still, the mocking tones of his voice are strangely comforting, making the unfamiliar surroundings seem more like a surreal dream than a deadly trap, and Wells could use a bit of false comfort just now. He honestly has no idea why people from before the war ever bothered writing science fiction about spaceships when they had all this nature around to scare them.

At dawn Clarke makes them split up to make sure they don't miss the pod in the dim morning light. Wells automatically moves to team up with her, old habits die hard, you and me against the world. It still feels new and wonderful to see her not flinch when he approaches, as if last year never happened; Wells takes an extinguished torch out of her hand, and passes her a bottle of water, then adjusts the straps of his backpack while she drinks. 

Unused to listening for footsteps on soft forest floor, Wells doesn't notice Finn is still with them until he almost steps into him.

***

They find a whole girl in a broken pod, and when she runs into Finn's arms, her head bloody from the rough landing. Wells can't tell if he feels uplifted, or disappointed. He expected a confrontation, and sure, it's a good thing that instead, they found a survivor, but he can't help the nagging feeling that something is in the air, and it will blow up in their faces soon enough.

As it turns out, Wells hates being right.

(He forces himself not to think how big a room they would need to fit three hundred and twenty people.)

( ~~He knows exactly how big.~~ )

Their brief search for the radio is as as desperate as it is futile, and then they're rushing back through the woods, Raven Reyes in toll. All Wells manages to do is slow Clarke down for long enough to make sure every member of their little search party is accounted for, small mercies. He isn't entirely sure that if any of them failed to show up, Clarke wouldn't leave them alone in the woods at this point.

(One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, he counts, then makes himself stop.)

They find Bellamy surprisingly quickly, and Wells doesn't even have time to come up with enough plausible theories about why he might've decided to take the radio, of all things. Clearly he doesn't want them to ever contact the Ark, and it can't be just because he doesn't care, with no one there waiting for him. Bellamy, thinks Wells, is many things, but he genuinely cares about his people, and he wouldn't simply leave the workers in the Ark to rot.

Then Raven accuses Bellamy of shooting the Chancellor, and time stops.

***

(In Wells' head, he sees it clearly, there are fists and there is blood, a seatbelt buckle and a knocked-out tooth. 

But there isn't time, you see, so he doesn't – not when he is wading in the water, and not when his shoes make a funny wet noise as he marches back to camp, empty-handed and too scared for words. Only when they're back at the gate, and nothing he does can possibly cause a substantial delay, Wells grabs Bellamy's arm and punches him in the face before he convinces himself that there are three hundred and twenty reasons why he doesn't have the right.)

***

Raven is a whirlwind, and after watching her for five minutes, Wells feels a sudden urge to sit down and close his eyes for a moment.

(Of course, Wells doesn't really watch her for five minutes. It's seventeen seconds tops, and then he's back to frantically putting together the skeleton for launching the beacons, because they must launch, dear God, they must. He isn't even sure what god he's referring to, but this is something his grandfather used to say when Wells was little. _Dear God,_ he would whisper, looking at monitors when he thought he was alone in his lab, _dear God, let it be habitable_. On second thought, given how successful Grandpa's prayers were, maybe Wells shouldn't be so quick to repeat them just now.

But, dear God, let them send the beacon in time.)

“Are you okay?” asks Clarke as they're hauling the beacons towards their launching place, and Wells, his world dreamy and parenthetical, sees her hand reaching to him to offer comfort.

So he puts a rope in it.

Wells tells himself this is actually comforting, the way Raven takes charge and knows exactly what to do. She has the air of competence he always respected in people, a silent and well-justified faith in her own knowledge.

He lets Raven's skills lull him into a sense of safety, because otherwise he'd be too paralyzed to lift another branch.

***

They launch in time, and Wells really shouldn't be surprised how much it doesn't matter.

Later, bodies fall out of the Ark like fireflies, what a beautiful funeral in a full majesty of the law. It's almost like their people up in the sky waited for nightfall to make sure everyone on the ground can see how much they failed, failure measured in three hundred and twenty heartbeats. Wells wishes she had the luxury to waste his time on outrage. _My dad would never,_ he'd say. _You don't know him the way I do._

You see, Wells does know his father really well, and that's how he knows that Thelonius undoubtedly _would_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy wakes up in the morning, and goes on with his life.

Bellamy wakes up in the morning, and goes on with his life.

(Four days after Octavia and their mom were arrested, Bellamy got up, brushed his teeth, and re-checked the schedule for his new work assignment, then spent six hours sweeping the floors without stopping, not even for lunch. Then his new supervisor, looking slightly concerned, told him he was done for the day, so Bellamy returned to his new lodgings, changed out of his work clothes, pinned the chart listing visiting days in Skybox to the wall, and went out to finally have a decent work-out, the one he's been promising himself for weeks. After that, he was so sore and wiped he slept like a baby, no worries and no dreams, most certainly no dreams. 

The trick, Bellamy knows, is never ever to stop.)

He's avoiding Wells, or maybe Wells is avoiding him – hard to tell, exactly, given how everyone in camp is eyeing him suspiciously, but not making eye contact. News travels fast in this tiny village of theirs, and the people who'd gone with Clarke to search for the pod wasted no time, their tongues as busy as their hands when they were building their failed beacon. 

So Bellamy does the only thing he can do: he washes his face, grabs his morning rations, and starts collecting the wood from launchers so that later it can be used for strengthening the wall.

Of course, my dear, you know as well as I do that Bellamy, self-absorbed as he is, doesn't quite notice the nuance here. He doesn't have the courage, not yet, to look at every single face, and realize that some of his people genuinely don't care how clean his motives were. The Ark can go to hell, as far as they're concerned. After all, this is exactly where Jaha has sent _them_.

***

When Wells finds him a few hours later, Bellamy doesn't immediately understand what he's talking about.

“Murphy,” repeats Wells patiently. “We can't keep him in the dropship forever. We need to decide what to do with him.”

It's terribly unclear and confusing, the way he obviously expects Bellamy to act like some kind of a leader, someone smart, and competent, and ~~trust~~ worthy; are you completely out of your mind, Chancellor?

Then Bellamy remembers he was the one who arrested Murphy, so of course it's his job to clean up the mess.

There is a strain on Wells' face, shockingly and undeniably real, but they take care not to mention it. Bellamy definitely can imagine himself being better at this, braver, and stronger, and honest enough to admit that, given the choice, he would do the same thing all over again, aim, and shoot, and miss, then carry the droplets of Jaha's blood to the dropship on his shoes, for Chancellor here to see. 

But since he's a cockroach, not a warrior, he just keeps walking.

***

Clarke suggests an open debate, and Bellamy rolls his eyes so hard they almost fall out of their sockets.

This isn't how things are done, nor have they ever been, and Bellamy should know – been there, done that, seen a vote after vote cast into a void that only spat out more and more of the same faces and the same laws. Seriously, how naïve _were_ those Alpha kids to think that the solution was to sit everyone down and talk things out?

“This is what you promised them,” reminds Clarke, her eyes fixed on his face so earnestly Bellamy needs to bite down a laugh, because yes, he did, and last night they already established he's a scum with no credentials, so why would she even bother pointing it out again?

“We can't just let him walk, because no one will ever trust us again,” says Wells soberly. “And we can't float him, because then we'd have an execution every other week, and we can't afford that, not when we have so few people. So what do we do?”

“We can't go over people's heads. They have to _know_. They have to participate.”

“And what if they float him?” asks Wells with a flare of badly disguised anger, and, as Clarke suddenly stops in her tracks, he can't stop himself from shooting Bellamy a quick look.

(“What,” they both think, “if they float us?”)

When Bellamy leaves Clarke and Wells alone to discuss fine points of legal theory, they don't even notice.

***

Raven is a solid Mecha girl if Bellamy ever saw one, competent and no-nonsense, with just the touch of arrogance necessary to make things other people wouldn't even think of.

(His mom, he tries not to remember, was like this once, long ago – not Zero G, of course, but still Mecha, handy, and clever, and full of life; smart enough, even years later, to design bigger and bigger shelters without making a sound.)

(Smart enough to raise her boy to understand exactly how the Ark ticked.)

When Bellamy finds Raven leaning over Monty's work table in the dropship, he knows better than to ask about her progress. She gives him a dirty look as it is, just for passing by on his way to Murphy's makeshift cell, and it's her unambiguous dislike that gives him an idea.

“Have you tried talking to him?” he asks, inclining his head towards the door. “We're supposed to...”

Raven ostensibly lowers her gaze back to her work, and in the corner of his eye, Bellamy can see Monty chuckle shamelessly into a crude screwdriver. 

(There is something in the air that Bellamy probably should notice, something in the tension of Raven's shoulders, and in a poignant absence of _someone_ in this idyllic picture of productivity, but since this is a lack even Raven isn't fully conscious of, Bellamy misses it as well.)

“Look, I have work to do,” she says before Monty can start laughing out loud. “So unless you have some spare parts I could use, I'm not interested in anything you have to say.”

“I don't,” admits Bellamy casually. “But I'm here to make you a deal.”

***

Dusk comes early, earlier than it did when they first landed, and Bellamy might understand how this happens, but it still gives him the creeps.

People are gathering around fires the way they do every night, and the second Bellamy sees Clarke and Wells emerge from some dark corner, he can tell exactly who won today's debate.

(At least this is what he tells himself cheekily, looking at Clarke's determined face. He isn't exactly sure what Wells' opinion was, or if he actually had an opinion set in stone, but it's neater this way – to imagine an epic struggle between those two kids so used to power they don't even wonder what it does to people, while he went behind their backs in the shadows, like a trickster from old stories, and set things up exactly like he wanted.)

“Listen, everyone,” starts Clarke in a clear voice that, Bellamy is pleased to hear, grows stronger and stronger with every word. “There is something we need to talk about.”

So she's the one speaking. Good.

“Now that we're safe behind the wall, we need to establish some rules.”

“Get to the point!” yells someone in the crowd, and Bellamy watches with some amusement how Wells automatically shoots a stern look in the general direction of the comment.

Well, it's now or never.

“Might as well call a spade a spade, princess,” says Bellamy in his best insolent voice; it annoys him to just listen to himself. “You don't actually give a crap; you're here after Murphy. Why wax poetic about rules?”

“We can't function without rules!”

“And why not?” shoots Bellamy as he gets up; it looks better, he knows, when they can all see him. “The Ark just floated three hundred people, and called it law. They dropped us here to die, and I can guarantee you that no one – _no one_ will answer for it! If this is what the law is, to hell with the law!”

Bellamy hears a murmur of assent rising behind him; not the enthusiastic shout he could count on before, but something much more cautious and subdued. He takes a deep breath.

They don't exactly love him, but they'll still trust him over a girl from Alpha.

“Everyone here knows how to tell right from wrong,” he says with is eyes on the crowd. “Where there are laws, there are people above the law. We don't need that here! We can decide for ourselves!”

Clarke looks at him as if he's committed an act of absolute betrayal.

“We all saw what Murphy did,” he continues, looking her straight in the eye; Bellamy Blake, as you know, is very good at continuing. “No need to waste time on talking about it. Is there anyone else you want to accuse of anything?”

This is the risky part, he knows, the part when a slight delay might cause an unimaginable disaster. Wells makes a move towards him as if he wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him for being such a complete moron, but then...

“You stole my radio,” says Raven in the exactly right moment, shocking everyone into silence just like she promised she would.

“I did,” admits Bellamy after a pause. “What do you want for it?”

(“It has to hurt,” he told her earlier, his eyes fixed on her tools because he couldn't quite look at her. “But it has to hurt just enough.”)

“We still need it to contact the Ark. Get me something I can build a new radio with, and until you do, you can feed yourself,” she states without hesitation.

Bellamy nods.

“New radio, no rations. Does this seem fair to everyone?” he asks, trying very hard to not hear the beating of his own heart, please, let them agree, please, let them fucking agree...

Then Miller shouts “Yes!” loudly enough for everyone to hear, and other voices follow like an avalanche, good, good, it should be safe, now, to get Murphy, and hope really hard that Clarke takes the hint, and follows Raven's example. If they are lucky, they might yet avoid bloodshed tonight.

As his eyes slowly sweep over the crowd, making sure everything went according to plan before he calls for Murphy, Bellamy feels a chill creep up his spine. He can't quite pinpoint it, but the feeling of dread fills him to the brim and makes him keep searching frantically, his gaze jumping from one person to the other; something is wrong, terribly, and obviously wrong, why can't he...

Only when Raven sits down, satisfied that she got her justice, Bellamy realizes he hasn't seen Octavia all day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Grounder's knife slides into Finn's flesh, Wells sees it in slow motion.

When the Grounder's knife slides into Finn's flesh, Wells sees it in slow motion.

(He doesn't see it at all; the cave is too dark, and the Grounder moves quickly, his body obscuring Finn's almost completely. But Wells likes to think that he can see – that he can almost feel the movement in dim light, his skin tingling with knowledge of exactly what happened.

Wells, you must understand, considers himself a kind of an expert when it comes to knives, though someone else would simply say that they're a theme for him.

That someone would possibly also point out that _if you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the fourth chapter it absolutely must go off_. You know how writers are.)

In contrast, the rest of the evening is a blur of hasty steps, and blood seeping steadily on the grass as they march, fas-ter-fas-ter-fas-ter; the only distraction is Octavia's hollow voice as she tries, it seems, to reason with the knots on the Grounder's wrists. On some level, Wells knows that she's right. This isn't them (this _shouldn't be_ them) – knots, and threats, and thick droplets of blood falling slowly from the Grounder's bruised nose. 

And yet when Wells tries to speak, his voice gets stuck in his throat like there was a lump there it can't possibly overcome. 

A part of him, the one that loves the thrill of justice, and stories, and grand gestures, wants to say he can taste blood on his tongue, but the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach doesn't allow for any dramatic indulgence. 

He wonders briefly if Clarke and Raven managed to get that radio.

***

Raven's face gets ashen when she sees Finn sprawled on his stretcher, and Wells closes his eyes to avoid seeing what she sees, a glossy black stain standing out on a filthy shirt, shining red in the bright moonlight.

There is something weird in the air, something that makes Wells stop when he spots Clarke running towards Finn with more than professional concern painting on her face. _They're friends,_ he wants to tell himself, but it makes him feel ridiculous, so he stops mid-word, and focuses on Raven instead.

He really shouldn't have focused on Raven. 

"Finn is hurt," he manages pointlessly. "And we took a prisoner."

They ignore him completely, as if there is nothing in the world but Raven and Clarke, Clarke and Raven, and words hanging between them that he'll never read, and thank God for that.

Then they start moving, and the moment is gone before Wells can ask any of the questions he never wanted to ask anyway.

***

After an hour, Wells comes to hate Raven's voice and its relentless, monotonous hope, _calling Ark station, calling Ark station, calling..._ , as if

(they weren't all alone down here)

anyone could actually save lives with a toy car boosted up by sheer stubbornness. He feels useless in this sorry excuse for an infirmary, his entire being reduced to running around and trying to block think streaks of water from the storm that is unfolding over their heads. 

He knows he should be with Bellamy now, taking care of the Grounder, but he can't bring himself to leave. It's for Clarke, of course it is, he'd never forgive himself if he left her alone now, so lost and frightened and bending under pressure, his heart jumping every time static screeches in a way that sounds just like distant footsteps...

Then Raven breaks through, and Wells forgets how to breathe.

Abby's voice comes as if from another life, hollow and distant, barely audible from behind the blood pumping loudly in Wells' ears. This can't be happening, not now, not yet; _You're a lousy shot,_ he hears in his head, oh God, he really fucking hates her voice.

Then suddenly it's not Abby he's hearing but dad, and the world comes down crashing, for real this time; today, thinks Wells idly, has been rather full of crashdowns.

“Clarke, this is the Chancellor. Are you saying there are survivors on the ground?”

Wells doesn't hear the reply. He doesn't even want to speak. He just wants this voice to keep talking.

There's some noise in the background, a buzz full of irrelevant things that shouldn't even be here, knives and Earth and fever, and then...

“Clarke?” 

Dad's voice is hesitant and shaky; Wells can hear all the notes exactly as they are, pure terror dressed up as public duty. The others shoot him funny looks, what kind of father doesn't ask about his own kid first, but Wells, with his newfound knowledge of what it feels like to dread the news so much you don't even let himself think, understands completely. 

“Clarke, is my son with you?”

“He's right here.”

“Wells?”

“Dad, I'm fine,” he manages. His own voice sounds foreign to him. “I'm sorry, but.. Listen, we need... Finn is...”

“I understand,” says dad evenly (competence, Wells knows, is the best defense against panic). “We're putting you through to medical now. Son? It's okay. Do what you have to, save your friend. I'll talk to you in the morning.”

He's so relieved that only when he reaches what passes for an interrogation room in the dropship and sees Bellamy's face, does he realize the ultimate irony of what is going on here.

***

Octavia leaves the room screaming, and Wells hates himself a little for not reaching out to her.

Bellamy looks like he knows exactly what he's doing, sure and strong and unbeatable. The storm has a way of making him look taller than he actually is, or maybe it's just Wells who feels smaller with all the doubts ringing in his head like a malfunctioning machine.

(“This isn't who we are,” Clarke said earlier in a room filled with blood and static, and Wells agreed with her at the time, but now there are too many words in his head for him to think clearly.)

The only interrogation technique he knows is “good cop, bad cop,” and let me tell you, all those pre-Ark movies he watched as a kid made it look much easier than it seems now. He has no clue what to say – but he's not used to keeping his mouth shut, either.

“He's not going to tell us anything,” he tries calmly. Once upon a time, his dad said you should start with the obvious, then work from there. Wells, despite his confusion, feels so happy at the thought of his dad he actually smiles, remembering this particular piece of advice.

The smile, he knows, makes him look confident – ironic and at ease, the Chancellor's kid through and through, raised to know exactly what to do with power. Wells might not know exactly what to say, but he's his father's son enough to know where to start.

“Look at him,” he suggests, his head inclined slightly towards the Grounder. “He isn't going to talk if he hasn't so far. You'll learn more if you search him.”

To Wells' astonishment, Miller moves to do exactly what he said, grabs the Grounder's jacket and bag, and starts turning every pocket inside out. Trinkets hit the floor with unimaginable ease, vials, and a notebook, and a tiny stub of a pencil. Bellamy gives Wells the most puzzling look, and takes a step forward as if he wanted to say something, threaten or praise, hard to tell, but Wells, breathing freely for the first time in days, can't wait to hear it.

Then Clarke storms in, crying _poison_.

***

You see, this, for Wells, should be the reckoning; such a neat idea, make or break, what are you made of, Chancellor? There's Bellamy with his belt and Raven with her wires, Clarke's begging and Octavia's screams, and Wells knows from all the stories he's ever heard that he should be there, grabbing Bellamy's hand or letting his knife slide gently down the Grounder's ribs – it doesn't matter which, as long as he's doing _something_.

There is a moment when he almost acts: stands behind Octavia, and out of sheer habit screams his throat raw at the very thought of violence. But the moment passes before he can move, and anyway, his legs are made of lead, unable to move until his mind makes itself up.

( _Do what you have to,_ he repeats in his head. _Save your friend._

He repeats it exactly three hundred and twenty times.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bruises on the Grounder's chest are blooming like flowers around his tattoos, and the funny thing is that Bellamy now knows of actual flowers he could compare them to, robust and beautiful, their colors ridiculously rich in dim sunlight.

It's a long night.

The bruises on the Grounder's chest are blooming like flowers around his tattoos, and the funny thing is that Bellamy now knows of actual flowers he could compare them to, robust and beautiful, their colors ridiculously rich in dim sunlight.

Right. Because he is now this person who'd beat someone bloody, then think about it poetically.

Since Raven has a functioning radio (no thanks to him), Bellamy is officially back to being fed together with everyone else. His evening ration is sitting right next to him, courtesy of Miller, but, surprisingly, he isn't hungry at all. He probably should be hungry, it's been hours since...

(Last night, he stormed out looking for Octavia like the devil was chasing him, leaving Clarke and Raven with their precious quest for a radio.

“Hey, shooter!” Raven called after him in the dark. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

He walked past her without sparing her as much as a glance, but she didn't follow, frozen – Bellamy now likes to think – by a sudden realization that there is this one thing they have in common, a point of connection difficult to ignore: for each of them, there was someone worth coming to Earth for. Surely, he decides, she must understand him.

It doesn't yet dawn on him that the first person to run outside after him was Wells, Wells' dramatic potential being considerably lowered by him not being a really hot girl, but don't worry. Bellamy will get there in time. He isn't as dim as he'd like you to think.)

You'd think the radio tent is shimmering slightly in the dark, given how aware Bellamy is of its constant, unnerving presence. It's giving out a sound, a constant, mechanic buzz, so Ark-like he feels he should grab something: a broom, or maybe a gun, small difference, right?

Falling apart isn't very exciting, so Bellamy tries to liven it up by coming up with dramatic turns of phrase.

(None of the books he read ever mentioned your fingers ache after you whip someone, to remind you beyond doubt just what you're made of.)

***

Octavia is standing vigil right behind the door, and Bellamy can't quite bear to look her in the eye. It rings in Bellamy's head that this is possibly a good opportunity to rethink this whole “doing things for other people's own good” idea, but, considering all the other things he'd better rethink, this one migh as well get in line.

He tries not to talk, because last night he already said much more than he should've, and he can't take back any of the low blows – things he didn't mean, even if he did think them once upon a time, when she was little and he was petty.

(When he was alone in a single room, a poster boy for going on with his life.)

Octavia gives him a look that, in terms of disdain, doesn't leave much to imagination, and Bellamy leaves the dropship, holding his head high.

“Chancellor wants a word,” calls out Raven as soon as she sees him pass by her fire.

“I bet he does.”

He isn't sure why he sits next to her – it's an impulse more than a conscious thought, perhaps something to do with her strength.

(She understands him, he tries to remember, but now that he's outside, he feels the presence of the radio so strongly he doesn't really feel like being dramatic.)

The camp is quiet around them, and Bellamy has a distinct impression of something coming apart, seams stretching and cracking before his very eyes, but without him noticing a single detail. 

“So what, are you just going to avoid him to death?” asks Raven without much interest. “You'll have to talk to him eventually.”

“No, I won't,” replies Bellamy curtly.

She doesn't speak to him again, but lets him stay by the fire until the first light.

***

Wells gets into the radio tent at the crack of dawn, and this is when Bellamy sees clearly that he must leave. 

And anyway, this is what he came for, right? To make sure Octavia was safe, and to never have anything to do with the Ark ever again. Okay, so he might've considered staying with those people, but no matter how hard he tried to break the communication between them and the Ark, he never really should've counted on it. It was an odd chance, he reminds himself, and it's time to return to reality now.

Octavia stays. He leaves.

In his head, he goes smoothly through the list of things he won't take, clothes and spears and shabby boots that don't stand the chance with the ground anyway. He wishes they had a sheriff badge, or at least a deck of cards. Then he could pull out the King of Hearts, and ostensibly leave it in the dropship for Clarke or Wells to find, a final statemept – Bellamy Blake is done pretending he knows what he's doing.

He has unfinished business – a girl in the woods, scared and cold and hungry, and he left her there because he was too busy playing Chancellor, joke's on him, except Charlotte most definitely isn't laughing.

(“Slay your demons, kid,” precisely the kind of advice you should give when you yourself are stuck, too scared to decide whether you should pray that the man you shot lives or dies.)

So he needs to go, and he needs to find her quickly, and maybe, just maybe, they can survive together. Charlotte had the right idea to run as soon as she could, without fooling herself with hope that Ark might never reach them. She knew that even if Wells Jaha alone didn't have the stomach to kill them both, his father certainly will.

When Chancellor Junior finds him in the dropship, Bellamy is nearly packed, and it shows: his eyes fixed on the ground, and his bag stuffed with rations he had no right to take. Wells most tactfully pretends not to notice the obvious theft as he asks Bellamy to come with him to find a supply depot, so Bellamy pretends not to know that Wells isn't really leading him out of the camp to get supplies.

(When he's sure no one is watching, he looks into Wells' eyes with a childish hope for some structure; a solid, dependable conviction of a true leader, none of those games he himself has been playing ever since they landed.

But he's stuck noticing that Wells haven't slept a wink.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy looks dazed in a “how am I still alive” way, and Wells wonders yet again why he picked him, of all people, to accompany him to the depot.

Bellamy looks dazed in a “how am I still alive” way, and Wells wonders yet again why he picked him, of all people, to accompany him to the depot.

“Move quickly,” said dad, his eyes strangely dim on the shabby screen. “Don't take too many people, and make sure you secure whatever you find.”

“Whatever we find?”

He could tell dad was clenching his fist resting right next to the screen, his fingernails briefly digging into the soft flesh of his palm before he straightened his hand again, as hard as it went.

“This is Earth, Wells,” he said simply. “We have no clue.”

(There are things they didn't talk about; a funeral bursting over Wells' head like fireflies, and a crude knife stuck into a Grounder's palm with a sharp cry.)

It was a long day followed by an even longer night, and Wells now feels turned inside out, weary and blurred around the edges, but he knows, finally, what needs to be done.

And if he can't bring himself to do it, at least he had the brains to take someone who will.

(Along the way, Wells can see that Bellamy stops a few times, and bites his lip as if he was going to say something, but then shakes his head and keeps up, tension oozing from his stiff neck and slouched shoulders. But uncertainty is the last thing he needs from Bellamy right now, so he promptly chooses to ignore it.)

***

The supply depot is little more than a damp hole in the ground, and Wells makes a mental note to bring Raven here, so she could at least try to explain to him how the hell it managed not to collapse yet.

If anything useful ever was here, it's must've rotten ages ago, not only food or medicine, but blankets and clothes as well. They can't even use this place as shelter, because there is no way they can drain it of water and whatever filth the water carried in, or air out the stench of decay that makes Wells regret he's been munching on nuts most of the day. There is nothing here for them.

Except for guns.

Wells reflexively flinches at the sight, and Bellamy gives him a puzzled look before he gets his face under control again, and returns to slowly unwrapping riffle after oiled riffle, naked barrels gleaming dangerously in torchlight.

“Can you shoot?” he asks in what he hopes is his composed voice.

Clarke nods grimly.

“I had some guard training,” she answers, her words strangely distorted. “They taught me.”

There is something wrong with the image, and suddenly Wells has to grab the edge of a table to not collapse; he blinks rapidly, and when he looks up again, he can see nothing but Bellamy's fingers clutching the gun so hard his knuckles seem completely bloodless.

 _Can you shoot?_ Oh God, did he really ask him that?

“I don't feel so well,” he manages, then reaches blindly, surprised to find Bellamy's hand ready to clasp his shaking fingers. They walk together, step after slow step, and Wells is sure he can feel Clarke's hands keeping him up in the dark.

He sees sunlight before he collapses.

I'm sure you expect to find quite a dream here; a vivid hallucination that lets you peek into Wells' troubled head, and extract meanings from the tangle of his thoughts. I say you are perfectly justified to expect it. You know as well as I do that Bellamy dreamt of blood, of guilt, and wounds, and violence, to wake up if not cleansed, then at least capable of walking again.

But Wells, being kind of a lightweight, not to mention exhausted beyond reason, simply collapses and sleeps, his dream so full of Clarke and chessboards his hands ere actually playing in his sleep, moving pawns with an elusive smile as he watches Clarke come up with her next strategy.

At leasts this is what you'll be left thinking, because, believe it or not, your narrator is a little bit of an asshole.

***

He wakes up on the soft grass, sore and hungover, to find Bellamy sitting over a dead body.

( ~~Wells might or might not be taking it as a sign.~~ )

Bellamy's eyes are wild, but his voice is calm and even. “He came to kill me,” he says quietly. “Just like you did.”

This is so bizarre, so utterly and unimaginably ridiculous that Wells is sure he must've hallucinated it, or at the very least misheard. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, determined to sound like a grown-up, solid and reliable, most definitely not a kid who's just hearing things. 

Bellamy nods slowly.

“Then we'd better get going.”

***

The journey back home lasts forever.

Wells feels strong and well-rested, fooled by the false alertness of the second wind. He couldn't have slept more than three or four hours, but, he thinks, it doesn't show; not in his strong legs, and not in the mad chase of his mind, wrapping itself tightly around all the things he never thought he'd comprehend. There is, finally, clearness to this world Wells found himself in, and he's determined to never ever let it go.

(“Secure whatever you find,” said dad in his businesslike voice. Then he hid his face in his hands and cried, cried without a word, and Wells cried, too, pretending to feel his tense shoulder relax as they were released of their burden.

“I will,” he promised as if this is what this conversation was all about.

It didn't matter that he didn't say it. Dad knew that what Wells meant was that he'd make him proud.)

When they finally reach the gate, Wells smiles for the first time in ages, calm and steady as he opens his bag and shows Clarke the guns. They need to be smart about this, he knows, and he turns to Bellamy with a question, something bland and trivial, the first question of many, when he hears noise by the gate.

Charlotte, pale and bloody, is standing in the open door, and looking him straight in the eye.

For a split second, Wells thinks he might still be hallucinating, but deep down, he knows he isn't. Charlotte has always been flesh and blood to him; grim reality, not a fancy or a dream. He never could've thought of anything like her.

No one makes a move toward her, so Charlotte takes a shaky step, then another one, and Wells doesn't need Clarke's urgent whisper to know she's infected with something unknown and dangerous; something that makes her stumble and gasp for breath as a trickle of blood seeps slowly from her swollen nose.

Wells automatically looks from Clarke to Bellamy, seeking advice, but then his eyes set on Charlotte, and his racing thoughts come to a rapid halt. He feels like he's out of his head, looking at camp from above (Wells, as you know, would totally feel like that), taking in every detail, lives lost and lives at risk. Ideas bloom in his mind like bruises, and for a second Wells feels surrounded; unsure what to pick, but dead certain, in his sleepless haze, that the choice is his and only his.

Clarity hits him like a lightning, and suddenly all things irrelevant vanish from his head, leaving only what's most important: Charlotte's bloody hands, and her face covered with nasty red splotches that can only mean fever. He can see in the corner of his eye that Bellamy immediately reaches to touch her, his eyes large with fear, but Wells is faster, so much faster; no haste, you see, will ever outrun sureness of hand.

When Wells lets his knife slide softly between Charlotte's ribs, he does it for dad.

(I apologize, dear reader, if this is not what you expected. “Oh, it's an origin story,” you said to yourself, or maybe: “This is how they're growing up.” You expected them, in the end, to know what they're doing.

But honestly, couldn't you tell, from the first time I spoke to you, poetic, and thoughtful, and mysteriously full of precious nuggets of truth, that this was a tale told by an idiot?)


End file.
